


part of the cure

by randomhorse



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Agent Carter season 2, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomhorse/pseuds/randomhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you listening?” Thompson asks, his voice thick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	part of the cure

 

 

Daniel Sousa has got a thousand things he never asked for. He’s got a girl sweet like candy floss and a Chief’s badge heavy in the breast pocket of his coat. The California heat is kind to his leg, his office nicely furnished with a heavy mahogany desk and bamboo blinds to keep out the sun that never seems to stop shining. There’s a bottle of Whiskey in his drawer and a heavy black telephone on his desk with a direct line to New York City.

Things would probably be just about perfect if it wasn’t for that goddamned phone.

 

 

“He believes we’re turning into a relic of the past,” Thompson tells Sousa one night, his voice heavy with booze and the static of several thousand miles of telephone wire between them.

“And what do you believe?” Sousa asks.

Thompson laughs drily. “That he’s right about you and me, most certainly.”

He doesn’t have to explain. Like Thompson, Sousa grew up quick and without a choice, a war looming beyond the horizon, and he has never looked back. It’s only now that responsibility – the true kind of responsibility that lies in marriage and family – is catching up with him. It’s worlds from carrying a deadly weapon or leading a squadron of soldiers and infinitely more terrifying. A striking afternoon a few weeks ago he realized he can imagine being the father of Violet’s children, and he hasn’t slept a full night since.

“Maybe you and I were meant for more than just battlefields,” Sousa suggests, but the thought bears no comfort at all.

 

 

There are things that form a kinship stronger than friendship, different than friendship, not needing friendship at all. Thompson knows the field like Sousa does, and he sounds like New York City like none of the agents Sousa works with now, and he knows what it feels like to inherit a post from a man who was never meant to go so early.

Their calls become routine long before Sousa realizes it, and when they get dangerous it’s far too late for Sousa to back out.

 

 

“I miss your mouth on my dick,” Thompson says one night after a long silence filled only with the crackle of the telephone line.

Sousa hears Thompson breathe. He hears the soft scratch of Bakelite against stubble and he knows Thompson is pinning the receiver between his cheek and shoulder to have both hands free. Sousa only knows Thompson clean-shaven.

Against better knowledge, Sousa waits.

He hears the rustle of fabric and Thompson’s breath heavy and close to the microphone, transmitting coarsely.

“Are you listening?” Thompson asks, his voice thick.

Sousa drops the phone on the cradle, the receiver suddenly scalding hot in his hand. 

 

 

When morning comes, the L.A. heat feels feverish for the first time. Sousa switches from Whiskey to water and stays in the shade as much as he can. He leaves sweaty fingerprints on every file he touches.

 

 

A few days later Thompson calls again, late, an edge to his voice that could be anything from irritation to desperation, and this time Sousa hears him through. Holds on fast to the phone with his right and to the armrest of his chair with his left, and listens to Thompson come two point five thousand miles away, pictures him with his fly undone and a hand shoved down the front of his pants in Dooley’s old office in New York City.

Sousa disconnects the call before he jerks himself off hard and dry. He comes soundlessly, with his lips pressed together tight enough to hurt. Cleans himself up and puts the receiver back on the cradle.

 

 

He takes Violet to dinner and buys a shiny ring with his first L.A. paycheck.

 

 

It would be easiest to blame Thompson for keeping it going because he already was a greedy inconsiderate asshole back in their New York days, but the truth is that Sousa picks up the receiver just as many times as Thompson calls. It’s rare enough Sousa would be tempted to not even call it a _thing_ at all, just a number of odd coincidences, a series of late-night drunk mistakes. Only he isn’t drunk most of the time. Only it isn’t even that late at night when it happens. Only he finds himself stalling with the paperwork, loitering around the office after closing time, when Thompson doesn’t call during the day. Only he feels no regret, even though he should.

 

 

“Are you hard?” Thompson asks, his breath already short.

Sousa responds with a huff, enough of an affirmative.

“Do you have a free hand?” Thompson asks. Sousa’s sweating. The blinds suddenly seem to cage the humid heat in his office more than anything. He palms his hard cock through the fabric of his pants.

“Imagine what I’d do to you,” Thompson says, “if I was there with you.”              

 

 

The thing is, Thompson has never done anything to Sousa except jerk him fast and dry, not looking at him, more out of duty than anything else. Thompson has never done anything _for_ Sousa.

It’s different from when Thompson pulled him into the S.S.R. broom closet back in New York and let Sousa suck him off. Sousa starts jerking himself to the sound of Thompson’s voice, to Thompson’s instructions, to the pretense of Thompson’s lips on his cock, and for some reason the real thing has never felt quite as intimate as Thompson’s breath in his ear, tinted by static, heavy like honey.

 

 

“Do you need specifics?” Thompson asks, and from what Sousa can tell he’s jerking himself in a steady lazy rhythm listening to Sousa come undone this side of the States.

“Fuck you,” Sousa hisses, close, so close.

Thompson is not a poetic man but he knows his words and the effect they have, and he knows to drop his voice to precisely the register that resonates deeply within Sousa, somewhere below his navel, dark and hot and melting.

“You got a mouth on you, I almost regret never kissing you,” Thompson says.

What’s worse is that Sousa can hear the smirk in Thompson’s voice, knows that he’s not _really_ going soft. Jack might be in his office with the blinds closed, his pants around his knees and his dick in his hand, but he’s still not letting down his guard. And Sousa is losing it. There’s nothing dignified about it and not an ounce of fairness. Somewhere along the line this has turned from Thompson pushing to Sousa needing, begging, and again he’s missed the moment. Couldn’t stop now if he tried.

 

 

It’s only when he goes out with Violet that the office is far, far away, and the phone and Thompson’s soft voice, too. Sousa has grown used to the small rectangular box in his pocket like he grew used to the heavy chief’s badge. It’s a privilege more than a burden. He will hold on to it for just a bit longer, will keep the comforting touch of velvet close just for a few more nights. He knows that if he asked, Violet wouldn’t turn him down. He’s going to wait just a little while, just until that thought doesn’t scare him quite as much anymore.

 

 

“I’m gonna fuck you for real when I come over,” Thompson says, and Sousa comes with an ugly sound and a stutter of his breath. He knows his tired brain is going to cling to the _when_ for days. _When_ , not _if_.

He leans back and listens to Thompson’s part, catching his breath, coming down from his high. Wonders idly when his life turned into this downward slope, with everything subordinate to gravity and nothing really in his control.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts to [an established arrangement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3509273).
> 
> Please come talk to me about this trash pairing on [tumblr](http://tiny-steve.tumblr.com/).


End file.
